The Old Norse Hill Biohazard
There was an incident in 1996 that no one is aware ever happened, or is still happening to this day; and yet it has the capacity to wipe us all out. When I say, no one knows, I mean only a small handful of elite members of parliament, the British and US military, us, and them; the victims of this scheme. We're not here to write an elegantly written story, we're just here to give you facts, so excuse us if our language may be a little blunt throughout this. No one knew exactly where this factory came from. Posters were mysteriously nailed to fences and plastered on lamp posts seemingly overnight. It was on a cold March day when the residents of Old Norse Hill village woke up that morning, and they were welcomed by these mysterious posters that were caked all over their sleepy hamlet. The posters read: "Residents of Old Norse Hill, we are here to inform you that the water supply to your homes will be disrupted over the next two weeks as plans for a new bottled water factory have been set into motion. Thank you for your patience" The villagers scratched their heads in confusion, as normally a meeting of some sorts would have been held in the church, where the council in the mainland informed them of these kinds of things. Some of the elderly residents were getting nervous and were already making plans to store up big bottles of water so as to avoid the disruptions, and some people were just plain pissed and started making plans to catch the ferry to stay with relatives or friends from the mainland. Old Norse Hill was a village set apart from all villages in that it is alone on a single tiny island, just a ferry ride away from the mainland of Scotland. It was a historic village, untouched by modern architecture as the grey crumbling stone houses and shops stood the test of time, the high speed winds and the shitty weather. Old Norse Hill had suffered it all and was set in its ways, much like the villagers. To live there was a hassle; couples with families would have to apply for a special passport every year so as to get free ferry rides to the mainland to get their children to school. The only shops that were in the village were a petrol station, a farm shop, and an old rickety news agents which informed the villagers of life outside Old Norse Hill via the newspapers. However, amidst all the woe and heartache of living in such a secluded place as that, it did have beautiful wild mountain scenery going for it. Just a few feet away from the village was a perfect stream of pure mountain water coursing through the island like a vein; water in which the houses were dependent upon. A water so clear and so ice cold, to stand in it with your bare feet would cause immense pain in the ankles and to drink it on a hot day would be like cleansing the soul. “It would only be a matter of time before some fat company cat took advantage of our perfect springs,” one of the elderly women sighed in her thick highlander accent, and all the other yokels agreed with an “aye” and scuttled off back to their homes. Poor fools. The ones that stayed with friends on the mainland were smarter. Construction for the water factory was soon underway, and was loosely put together within the week. It was not completed, however, but within the first week of construction, signs were nailed to the side of the factory that bore the logo, “Fairwright's Highland Water”. It was a cheap logo, which looked like it had been done using the Word Art tool from Microsoft PowerPoint. It was designed with ugly dull colours of brown like reds, murky blues, swamp coloured green and, in short terms, just looked miserable. Mr. MacLennan lived closest to the factory, and was most likely the first victim of all this for that reason. He was a grumpy old man with no wife and no children, and lived in the old manor house on the outskirts of the village away from people. Often, children would come by to peek inside the windows, looking for ghosts, and he would throw books at them to scare them away. Mr. MacLennan hardly ever left the manor except for supplies, and he hated the new factory with all its builders driving diggers around close to his property at every hour of the day. But it wasn't just the diggers and the noise of the builders Mr. MacLennan had to worry about. Weird things started to happen during those two weeks of construction. At the beginning of the second week, to Mr. MacLennan’s joy, noise started to die down from the factory and it seemed the number of builders working on the place soon began to thin. Dark limos would drive off the ferry and up towards the building site, and the whole area was suddenly blocked off tighter, so much so that you couldn't even walk near it, as much as many bored kids tried. MacLennan reported in the last few days of his life that Old Norse Hill became hell on earth, and it all started with that bottled water factory. He reported that after a while, he started losing what little bit of his hair he had left and he felt ill, but not just any kind of ill, an ill that started off as a small chill in his toes, and eventually crept up his whole body to the top of his head. Once his body was permanently in a state of bitter cold, MacLennan reported his fingernails loosening and he started to smell quite bad. He said it was the kind of odor that was likened to rotten meat, and no matter how many times he would bathe, still he would never smell clean. His situation worsened as he described the way he could pluck out his teeth one by one, not feeling any pain as the nerve endings of his skin were dead, like the frost-bitten flowers of December. In the last few days of his life, his voice became unrecognizable, and he was unable to stand on his own. But what's more interesting is, he also reported in his final day or two, that he became hungry; so incredibly hungry... Soldiers in level 4 biohazard suits soon came to the house as he writhed about on the floor, frightened in his weakened state, and wheeled him out away from the safety of his secluded manor house and out into the village amongst the population. Villagers watched in confusion at this strange scene, and all muttered amongst themselves, speculating whether that rotting man was Mr. MacLennan or not. And then the fear kicked in. A wave of screams emitted from whoever was out that day, and people rushed into their homes as the seemingly dead body of Mr. MacLennan was rising from his chair, and chasing after them, flailing his arms about and groaning, as if pleading for help. MacLennan caught the arm of one struggling resident, and in his panic fell to the floor, taking MacLennan with him as an almost inaudible voice of the dead man whimpered and cried, "I'm so hungry!" and he began to chomp on the man, tearing the veins from his flesh, and picking out what he wanted from the inside of the man's stomach. The soldiers who wheeled MacLennan out were nowhere to be seen, and all ferries heading towards the island had been permanently cancelled. No one was allowed back in Old Norse Hill, and the government has now succeeded in wiping it off the map altogether by bribing the people who went to the mainland for those two weeks to keep quiet, or simply allowing them back into the hell without a word of warning. But we now know the truth. There was no Fairwrights Water Company, there never was going to be one, it was a decoy. They fed some sort of chemical into the water supply in that factory, to turn these people into these... things, and when it wasn't happening fast enough, they brought the closest resident to that God awful factory into the village to finish the job. They created their own little mini apocalypse on that island so they could train the soldiers. They turned those poor people into living, hungry dead creatures. But what's more disturbing? They're not even fully dead. Their minds are still trapped in those rotting bodies, if you listen closely enough you can still hear them pleading, cowering in fear of the soldiers; still hear them conversing with one another about how they might end their lives and escape those bodies. We tell you nothing but the truth now, we are a secret organization, not out against the government, but simply to inform you of what is going on. Think of it, a gift to you, like public service announcement. Everything in this tale is credible from the notes and files that were taken of Mr. MacLennan; notes and files that were stolen by us. Yes, the army uses Old Norse Hill as a training ground even to this day. Whenever the living dead count is getting low, they re-stock them with old prisoners; pedophiles, murderers, rapists, or any kind of scum who are all in their 80's now. You may think it's justice condemning those convicts to that living hell, but think about this; why on earth are the army training themselves on how to deal with a zombie apocalypse? Category:Science Category:Places